stars don't shine, not here
by Lady September
Summary: It's complex and stupid and there are too many people involved, but he's always been selfish. cooper/rachel.


**note: **What am I doing? Stop it, stop it. I don't even watch this show, not really. I didn't even know who Matt Bomer was until a couple of days ago. Why did I write this? Why am I uploading it? I don't even know. At least it came out somewhat good.

—

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**stars don't shine, not here**

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—

"Whisk me away," she breathes into his skin. "Take me with you to your glamorous Hollywood," she mouths, smiles.

He looks at her like he wants to give her the sun and the moon and the stars and the entire galaxy if he could, if only she asks for them, but she doesn't, she asks for _this _instead, and this—this is something he can't give her.

She's young. She's still so very young.

—

Hollywood is not _glamorous._

It's not a place of fairytales. It's not a place you can go where all your dreams and hopes become real with a snap of your fingers, a turn of your head, where chances are handed out on the streets. Hollywood is staying strong in a world that wants to crush you. Hollywood is faking smiles and shaking assholes' hands and working long gritty hours for something that may or may not happen.

He's got his commercials and that's _great_, really, bringing in enough money to cover the basic expenses of being an actor (but not much else) and making him a household face—but commercials get old fast and they're not the reason he got into this business.

All he needs is one person to see him, to give him the chance to shine. He's made for this: can feel it itching in his fingers, nagging at the back of his mind, in everything he is and everything he does. But that person seems to be nowhere in sight, no matter how many people's hands he shakes, how many of those stupid headshots he signs for fans, no matter how many one-minute interviews he gives.

"We'll get you on their radar," his manager promises, consoles. "You've got talent. You're a star."

He doesn't feel much like a star when he gets home late, stumbles into his apartment looking like shit because he hasn't gotten any sleep in days, too keyed up by auditions he'll never get call-backs for. He doesn't feel much like a star when he tries to figure out how he's going to pay all the bills and no one ever mentions that trying to make it big is _fucking expensive_. Shouldn't there be some kind of warning?

_Don't worry_, added as an afterthought, like that's so easy when your future is in somebody else's hands.

Cooper Anderson doesn't give up.

It's not in his blood, it's not in his family.

But he's oh-so-close to giving up so many times, ready to run back to Ohio with his tail between his legs. When auditions fall through—_again_—and he has to turn down semi-friends' invitations out because he knows he won't get into the places they want to go, it's a tempting thought.

(And there's his father's voice is the back of his head, always, always, "You should get yourself a real job, son," and his mother's gentler, "Isn't it time to let go of this dream of yours, Coop, darling?")

He works constantly, throws himself into it with vigor. This _is _what he wants to do, hardships and all, but some of the light has gone from his eyes. Sometimes he finds himself thinking about high school, how easy everything seemed back then in the dim light of someone's basement. Adulthood a million miles away, the rush of shallow popularity heavy with electricity in his veins. Sometimes he wishes he could get that feeling back.

And then suddenly there's _her_, cornering him after a bullshit lesson in his brother's school asking for help.

She's different than the women he spends time with in L.A., she's new, and she reminds him of teenage Cooper Anderson. Maybe that's a bad thing to admit, but she does and since he lives in a world made up of lies, he likes to at least be honest with himself if he can't be with anyone else.

It's not a good idea, he knows it's not.

It's complex and stupid and there are too many people involved, but he's always been selfish.

—

Blaine slams a fist hard against the wall to get his attention, startles a couple of younger girls who scatters like a wind. "Tell me you're not fucking her," he demands in a harsh voice, but at least he has the sense to keep quiet: he's smart, smarter than people give him credit for. He's taught himself how to survive.

Feeling tired, Cooper turns towards him slightly and says nothing.

His brother draws a sharp breath through his teeth. "Are you out of your _mind_?" he asks, and he's clearly upset. Out of all the things this crosses a line, this isn't alright. "She's barely legal, for fuck's sake. She's not even single, Coop." On and on it goes, accusations and disappointment, but girls are Cooper's area, not Blaine's. "What do you even get out of this? Do you know what'll happen if this gets out? You could say goodbye to that career of yours!"

_What career? _he almost wants to say, and wonders when he got so cynical. "Look, I'm flattered that you care, kid," he finally says, tries not to sound like a dick because he actually is flattered, "but this is none of your business."

"Damn well this is my business," Blaine protests. "She's my _friend_, and you're my _brother_."

Cooper shakes his head. "Don't curse. It's unbecoming."

"You're impossible!" his brother says, throws up his hands in exasperation as he starts to back away. "This isn't going to end well."

He can read the sings well enough, knows Blaine needs some time to cool off before they approach this topic again. Honestly, he should be glad: they've spent more time together in the past couple of months than they've had for years. But he's right—his agent is getting antsy, wondering how many times he can possibly fly out to "fuckin' Ohio" and there are only so many things he can blame it on.

—

"You've got to figure this out, Coop," Blaine says tiredly later, the anger seemingly drained out of him. "You can't keep doing this."

He's always been the smarter Anderson.

—

It's comfort that it comes down to.

She's resting her head on his chest, their bodies thoroughly exhausted in that pleasant way that leaves warm content in the pit of their stomachs, and tells him about her life like she actually wants him to know. Her voice speeds up when she talks about New Directions, drops when she talks about her maybe-sort-of-_I just don't know anymore_-boyfriend (and there's guilt there), and then she's drawing shy circles on his chest when she talks about her dads.

Cooper's spent years listening to meaningless bullshit and this is different, he can tell by now, but that doesn't mean she knows anything about how the real world works.

"You're in high school, Rach," he tells her soothingly when she almost tears up about something. "It's not the end of the world."

"I am _not _a kid," she replies stubbornly, but that's really only more proof that she is.

People who look at the world and see what they want to see have always annoyed him. He doesn't believe in that, not for one second. There are no rose-colored glasses for him to put on. Age isn't "just a number", it's a thing to conquer. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

He sighs, kisses the top of her head. "Give it a few years. It'll look different." When she makes a sound of disagreement in the back of her throat, "I promise."

They're quiet for a moment.

"Do you really think that?" she asks suddenly, seems to startle herself at the blunt delivery. She shakes her head, frowns like she's upset, and tries again. "I mean, what you said the first time we met? At that lesson? That Broadway is dead?"

This is where he should tell her, _No_, but he's always been selfish. "Yes," he says instead.

"Then whisk me away," she says. "Take me with you to your glamorous Hollywood."

—

(He'll sit in the audience on opening night.

She'll stride across the stage like she owns it—she _will _own it—and he'll watch, heart heavy in his chest, pride and envy and want not necessarily for the same things whirling together in a strange mix. She'll smile and sing and look like she belongs because she does.

There will be a different girl next to him, a different boy waiting on her after the show, but she'll know what he knows and the spotlight reflecting in her eyes will be almost like stars.

That's enough, he'll think. That's it.)

—

She's not young anymore.

Well, maybe she is—she's still only fresh out of high school, but she's not _young_. Her back is straight and her hands still, clenched into fists by her side, but she doesn't waver, doesn't change her mind. Says things like, _I'm sorry _and _I want this _and _I can't risk it_ and he thinks, _I risked it for you_, but he doesn't say it because that's not entirely true, is it? The naivety is gone, replaced by the reality check that comes with being hurt one too many times and the realization that sometimes words are just words. He wonders when the stars went out of her eyes.

He grieves, but knows how to hide it between easy smiles and punch lines.

.

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—

**end note: **I don't know how this happened. I'm into fractured relationships between siblings and gritty realities, and most of all I'm into tumblr (lady-september[.]tumblr[.]com) where I found the _Somebody I Used to Know _performance, and I was a goner. This turned out a little harsher than the show, maybe, and I'm not even sure how I feel about it, but. Please excuse me for trespassing into your fandom, but if you're feeling nice, maybe leave me a review?


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